


Il Bacio

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Historical References, Romance, Season 3 that never was, Waltzing, a ball, callbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Emma Green had never had an invitation she prized more.





	Il Bacio

“Dr. Foster must’ve bought every candle in Alexandria for tonight,” Emma said, gazing around the room. It wasn’t a proper ballroom, not like the one at home, but Mary had contrived to make the double-parlor feel like the most elegant room in the city. The furniture had been pushed up close to the walls and the Persian rugs rolled back so there was enough room to dance the waltz and the quadrille. There were bouquets of richly scented flowers, lilies and jasmine and gardenias, all white as the tapers. Mary wore a cluster of the gardenias in her hair, the petals like velvet against the dark silk of her chestnut chignon; the blossoms suited her better than any ribbons or jeweled combs.

“It was impossible to rein him in, so I didn’t try,” Mary said. She was happy as she hadn’t been before her illness, Emma could see that, just as she could see her friend was still too slender in the taffeta gown the color of a peacock’s feather. 

“Does he get his way all the time then?” Emma teased.

“Hardly—to hear his account, I’m the greatest tyrant since Critias,” Mary laughed. “He certainly acts like the chicory I serve is worse than hemlock.”

“I thought you’d have coffee sent from Boston,” Emma said.

“Oh, we have a little but it’s dear and there are better things to spend money on these days,” Mary said.

“I must admit, pleased as I was, I was surprised you agreed to host this ball,” Emma said. 

“May I tell you a secret?” Mary said, ducking her head a little. Emma nodded.

“Dr. Foster tricked me. He said we’d just have a little party to celebrate Mr. Diggs’s departure for medical school, something to cheer up our hard-working friends and colleagues. He said we’d make sure everyone had a good dinner for once and before I knew it, he’d arranged nearly all of this! Even the flowers! He didn’t come to the ball your parents had, we never had a chance to dance that night, and I think he’s been wanting to all this time,” Mary said. There was something in the timbre of her voice, some memory perhaps of that earlier ball, or some other persuasion Dr. Foster had employed to convince his wife of the necessity of this extravagant gala, that made Emma feel unsettled. She’d also been promised a dance that night, one that had never happened, but a dark time had followed and she’d never been able to regret the dance without regretting more her action and inaction.

“That seems like a long time ago,” Emma said.

“It does—and like it might be yesterday,” Mary replied. “But come now, I mustn’t monopolize you. You’re meant to enjoy yourself tonight, not be stuck in a corner talking with a dull matron.”

“I suppose I could say the same to you, just about, if we’re going to spout nonsense,” Emma countered. “You’re the hostess and I’ve been keeping you from your other guests—and that waltz. I can positively feel Dr. Foster’s eyes on me, glaring like I’ve offered him a tenaculum instead of a scalpel! I’m happy enough where I am and he’s too impatient to wait much longer.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Mary said. “I shan’t have him causing a scene, not when he’s taken such trouble to make the night a pleasure for everyone.”

“I think it’s meant to be a pleasure for you, Mary,” Emma said. Mary gave her a bright, tender smile then, one which might be Dr. Foster’s favorite, and patted her hand gently, then walked away.

It was pleasant enough, the candlelight and the music, the fragrance of the flowers. Emma tapped her feet in their worn slippers, surveying the dancers on the floor. Once, she would have been among them, at the very center, flirting with her partner and laughing at whatever caught her fancy, sure she was the undisputed belle of Alexandria.

“You’re tucked away in the corner,” Henry said. He’d come up beside her while she watched the waltz and now stood there very tall and handsome in his pressed and brushed suit. His linen was snowy white, his boots polished; she could see what care he’d taken in his dress, in the small cut at his jaw where the razor had nicked him. “Shouldn’t you like to dance? If you recall, you once agreed to a waltz with me.” He held out his hand.

“But this is a redowa,” Emma replied.

“Then the next one?” Henry persisted. 

“I’m afraid I can’t dance with you,” Emma said.

“You can’t? Or you don’t want to? I beg your pardon if I’ve embarrassed you with my attention,” Henry said stiffly. He could get that way, she knew from experience, more and more solemnly miserable until it seemed he’d freeze up for good. Old Stoneface, she’d heard Anne Hastings call him and she’d fought to keep from arguing with the older woman even as she saw the truth in the caustic mockery.

“You don’t embarrass me, in any way. But I’d embarrass you,” she said.

“What can you possibly mean, Emma?”

“I tried to mend it,” Emma said, turning slightly and gesturing at the scorch mark plainly evident on the deep rose muslin of her skirt, the shape of the iron undeniable. She’d acquired the barest proficiency in pressing her bodice and laundering her cuffs and lace collars, but the sheer volume and delicacy of her last remaining ballgown had been a challenge too great for her meager skills.

“You think I’d mind that?” Henry asked, but kindly, his voice soft and oh-so charming.

“I’d mind that. For both of us. I can keep everyone from seeing as long as I’m not whirling about on the floor and that’s what I’ll have to be satisfied with,” Emma said.

“I understand,” Henry replied, startling her by taking her scandalously ungloved hand in his. He leaned down, so she could hear him speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? You know there’s plenty of space to dance in the hallway near Jed’s study—we’ll still hear the music but no one would see your skirt but me. And I wouldn’t be looking at anything but your face,” Henry said. Emma blushed and Henry lifted his hand to touch her cheek, very gently, as if he was making sure she was real. As if he would make her know she was cherished.

“You’re so lovely,” he said and she blushed more but didn’t look away.

“You’ll turn my head with your sweet-talk, Henry Hopkins,” she said, striving for her old easy coquetry. She didn’t manage it and she could tell he noticed.

“As long as I don’t turn your ankle while we’re dancing,” he said.

“I doubt that. I’ve never known anyone who takes such good care of other people,” she said.

“Only you, Emma,” he said. It wasn’t so much a response to what she’d said as a promise, one she could tell meant more to him than any waltz ever could. Her answer would wait until she was held in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for all the Henry Hopkins lovers, everyone who wishes we had gotten a better ball, better ballgowns, no cake battle, Samuel going to med school and still with some wiseacre remarks from Jed and Anne Hastings.
> 
> I'd bet Byron is scarfing down all the refreshments in the dining room, the glutton.
> 
> Critias was a tyrant of Athens, a leading and violent member of the Thirty Tyrants. Yes, Mary is that well-read and Emma too.
> 
> Il Bacio is also called The Kiss Waltz and was popular in 1859. I fudged the dates because THAT NAME IS FANFIC GOLD.


End file.
